


Confessions

by RainsDropsonRoses



Category: The Musketeers (2014)
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-06-19
Updated: 2016-07-13
Packaged: 2018-07-16 01:28:29
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 12,639
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7246699
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/RainsDropsonRoses/pseuds/RainsDropsonRoses
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A different take on season two, episode 9.  Aramis is at the mercy of Rochefort who is determined to make him and the queen suffer.  They struggle to maintain the lies under pressure while the team races to gather the evidence and resources needed to save their lives.  I've added unseen scenes and changed scenes for my own story telling purposes.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. The Castle is a Prison

**Author's Note:**

> Hello! Like most people, I thought that there was no way Rochefort would let Aramis off the hook in the Chatelet. Rochefort spent 5 years getting owned in a Spanish prison, holding on to the idea that Anne was waiting for him. Finding out that Aramis slept with her and was gifted his cross without any consequences while he was roundly turned down must have made at the very least a little stabby. The idea of making sure the queen saw a whole Aramis shatter on the wheel may have prevented a more thorough interrogation, but I’m sure Rochefort would have taken his chance. Plus there were some moral conflicts tht no one really (except Milady of course) really hit on. This first scene should be the only scene which resembles the episode closely. Otherwise I explore what we didn't see or hear about with the rest of the team.

 

Aramis scrambled to his feet as the clatter of boots spread down the corridor.  He moved forward but the chains jerked him backed to the wall.  Reflexively, he straightened his shoulders and set his feet apart. He pushed the terrible thoughts of the past few hours back and cleared his mind. 

 

Protect Anne.  Protect our son. 

 

Behind the guards, a blond head was visible.  Aramis’s fists clenched hard.  A tremor of rage ran through him.  Wrath was not his most perpetrated sin. The lighter sins, which often had a tinge of pleasure, were the most frequent subject of his confessions.  Taking Rochefort’s life now would have some measure of pleasure to it at least in thought.  At the moment though he would gladly commit any number of sins if they made Rochefort dead. Recalling the moment when the man had been minutes away from swinging turned his insides bitter. _If only we had let them._

 

The jail door swung open and Rochefort, wearing a perfect mask of smug satisfaction, strolled in.  He paused for a moment and Aramis felt his gaze travel down his body to chains on his wrists to the bolt in the wall. Rochefort smirked coldly. Heat crept into his face. Chained like a dog to a fence, Aramis thought and before he lost his nerve, forced his voice to be even and looked him straight in the eye.

 

“Are you going to torture me?”

 

“I’m not going to lie to you Aramis, your life cannot be saved.”  Rochefort replied dismissively.  Aramis saw the glint in his eye and braced himself for the an equally disinterested description of the punishment awaiting him.

 

  “But there is still hope the queen.” He twitched before he could stop but he wiped his face blank and focused Rochefort as the man freely walked around the cell.

 

“In exchange for a full confession from you, the king will divorce Her Majesty, disown the dauphin and allow both to live in exile.”  Aramis felt a chill run down his spine as the man continued on.  “You can save them Aramis.  Just. Speak. The. Truth.” 

 

Rochefort lingered, staring at him expectantly. He can wait till judgement day, Aramis thought. Surrounded by stone walls and clamped in chains the scheme was clear. The King, weak and in thrall of Rochefort would never propose such a lenient sentence for the Queen.  A confession would never keep the queen free or safe; This much was obvious. He had expected Rochefort to immediate apply his extensive knowledge in interrogation methods to extract a confession from him.  Offering false means to save the queen and his son seemed a weak tactic at best, given the depth of Rochefort’s treachery.

 

 He thinks I am fool in love, Aramis thought successfully resisting the urge to laugh outloud at the absurdity.  It was one thing to accuse the queen of treason and adultery, but to have the accused willingly confess; that would sharpen the executioner’s blade.  Silence was his answer.

 

Another minute passed before Rochefort sighed, turned and walked out.  Aramis followed his movement around the corridor and out of sight. He listened to the footsteps soften and disappear.  Suddenly silent, his cell seemed more oppressive than before as if Rochefort had drawn out all the warmth with his departure.  It was a moment before the reason dawned upon him: Rochefort had never answered his first question.  

 

The lack of that answer was like a leaden weight on his neck and he took a deep breath as he leaned heavily against the stones.  Reflexively he reached for the crucifix but only grasped the edges of his coat.  The red guard had ripped it from him while removing his weapons. His neck stung where the chain had torn flesh.  Absent it’s comforting weight, he felt naked. He closed his eyes. The urge to pray was there; but what for?  For Anne and the dauphin’s protection?  For strength?  His stomach twisted and the damp chill of the cell fall harder on him.

 

For forgiveness? Despite all, this imprisonment was lawful.  He engaged in affair with a queen and impregnated her. The reasons did not matter in the eyes of the law.  Or God, he thought.  Coveting another man’s wife was a sin. Laying with a King’s wife was surely a greater transgression than a different woman. 

 

Unbidden she appeared in his thoughts.  Her warm expressive face with eyes blue as a summer day and laughter on her lips.  A halo of light circled her head bathing her the colors of early dawn. The memory was so clear he could feel her soft hand cup his cheek and the her body press against his.

 

A quiet voice spoke inside him.

 

“Set me as a seal upon thine heart, as a seal upon thine arm: for love is strong as death.”

 

Aramis fell out of the memory, landing again in his dim cell, the weight on his wrists binding him to the present. He took a deep breath of musty stale air. I will not fail them, he vowed. He focused his eyes on the door. Let him do as he wills; Rochefort will soon learn that a Musketeer does not sacrifice his queen. 

 

***************************************************************************

**Psalms 22:19** But you, LORD, do not be far from me. You are my strength; come quickly to help me.

 

The smooth beads ran through her fingers as mechanically as the prayers passing through her lips. Her finger tips were numb; the rosary hadn’t left her hand since the chamber doors slammed shut.  She barely slept.  Instead she paced the room viewing it with new eyes.  Heavy with new purpose the high ceiling and decorative furniture paled in value.  It was no longer her room-it was a prison. 

 

Not a single attendant kept her company.  For once the privacy she cherished seemed as overwhelming as a crowd of people.  If she pressed her ear to the door she could hear the somber voices of her ladies in waiting, twittering faintly.  She strained to catch the discussion but it was hushed.  The ladies were as far as they could get from the door.

 

They were afraid to be touched by taint of treason.  Her heart twisted and she kissed her rosary as she knelt before the cross.  Like Constance.  Her devoted friend almost sacrificed to satisfy Rochefort’s madness. The previous night she had spent on her knees begging and pleading for her friend.  Lord, spare her.  The fault does not lie with her.

 

And the Lord had answered her.  The gunfire in the early morning and ill temper of the red guard made her weak with relief. Alone and surrounded by her enemies she was grateful for this small gift.  At least her death will not rest on me too, she thought, remembering poor doctor.    

 

She was used to having power over the fate of others.  Political intrigue is not the domain of only men- queens were required to play the power games as astutely as their husbands.  Mary Medici taught her that.  A queen was also to demonstrate many other traits that her husband might not-mercy, diplomacy, reason, and charm. But above all else, obedience.  The word soured in her mouth.  Her greatest fault.  The instrument of her downfall.  Regardless of her many talents, marriage had entitled her to a single task: produce the next king. 

 

And I did, she thought vehemently, looking up at the calm beatific Virgin.  I will swear it until the end, hand on the bible and before the Holy Mother. 

 

The small wails of her son leaked through the wall. It was like an unstaunched wound.  Grief, fear, and anger poured out of her.  Despite countless requests, the stone faced guard refused to grant her leave to see him or have someone bring him to her. The King was childish for sure but this? His penchant for drama had never been so cruel.

 

And Rochefort?  How could she have been so blind to his intentions all along?  Mistaking his helpfulness as devotion and his counsel as sincere advice.  I let a wolf into my midst and now he has his pick of the flock, she thought.  Would he hurt the Dauphin?  Would he dare to level treason charges against an infant?  The beads of the rosary cut into her hand. 

 

The chamber doors swung open clattering loudly against the wall.  Hastily she rose to her feet, the rosary tight around her grip.  It was him.  Her expression neutralized and she resumed her posture. Despite many years at court she had never acquired a taste for revenge.  Watching him casually approach her, in a manner befitting a commoner, she decided that given the opportunity she would deny him every mercy.   His deception and treachery, conducted on the pretense of friendship and loyalty, filled her with unspeakable rage. 

 

Rochefort stopped next to her prayer seat.  He said nothing, letting silence be his presence.  She ignored his eye patch and refused to acknowledge him first.  Unfazed by intimidation she easily met his eyes.  I will not bend to this man, she swore.  He will not frighten me or hear me beg.    

 

“I return your belonging.”  Noticeably, he did not use her title.  He held out his hand and dropped something that quietly clinked on the floor.  She feigned disinterest and kept focus on his face. To look down meant he had something valuable to her and at this moment, the only thing more precious than her son, was power.  She refused to acquiesce a single grain more.

 

“Unless you have the intention of taking me to the King this minute you can leave.”

 

His face twisted into a smirk.  He touched his heart in a mocking gesture, turned on heel and walked out the door.  It shut with a soft click and only then did she look down.  Tangled in a heap was a golden chain and jeweled cross.  As if in a trance she bent down and picked it up.  It was cold in her hand.  Red stained the long chain.  She clutched it to her chest.  Aramis. 

_“Monsieur Aramis, bravest of all the musketeers.” The musketeer bent slightly at the waist not bowing nearly as deeply as his larger friend.   An act by any other person might have an air of a disrespect but by the easy smile on his face she suspected he did not demonstrate loyalty with route gestures. It was refreshing._

_“Only amongst the bravest, Your Majesty.” The pleased twinkle in his eyes did not escape her attention and it warmed her.  Surrounded by self-serving nobles and obedient servants, charm for the sake of charm pleased her.  She spied the wound under his wavy hair and gently touched it.  It was the duty of musketeers to protect the royal family but seeing it again reminded her that as his companions attempted to kill the escapees he had stepped in front of gunfire, using his body as a shield for her.   That was a gesture she could take notice of._

_She undid the knot of her crucifix and motioned him forward.  He bent again, this time lower, to allow her to tie the ribbon.  Her pulse jumped.  It had been a long time since another man stood so close to her.  Unperfumed like the nobles, he smelled of leather, sweat and gun powder. Unexpectedly, it was comforting.  She stepped back and smiled as he glanced down at the crucifix resting on his chest.  He looked up and met her gaze easily as she spoke._

_“May it keep you safe, always.”_

 

Suddenly the memory faded and she wakened to surroundings that felt colder and darker than before. She turned and, ignoring the pain in her knees, knelt again before the Virgin and prepared to beseech God again.  Please Mother, keep him safe. 


	2. Prey

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> One musketeer is hunting prey that will save his brother. Another musketeer becomes the prey.

**Ephesians 6:11** Put on the full armor of God, so that you can take your stand against the devil’s schemes

*************************************************************************************************************

Near the border the landscape changed.  Jagged rocks protruded from the earth, surrounded by short thorny shrubs and brush that snagged on his coat and more than once ripped his hat from his head. In the distance, the mountains rose like giant guards over the border of Spain.  The early morning sun pressed on his back and pushed him forward.  He knew himself well enough that attempting to sleep would have been a pointless task, only slowing his horse to a walk for a few hours at a time. He diligently rehearsed his strategy and considered contingencies.  Anything to keep his mind from drifting back to the monastery.   

 

What was happening now? What were the chances the King would listen to them and hold out till he returned?  In the pit of his stomach he knew the answer.

 

Damn you, Aramis, he thought.  Of all the women, in all the world, you had to choose the Queen, the wife of the man you swore to protect.  Time had not changed the incredulity he had for this information.  Aramis and the Queen.  He clenched his teeth.  Aramis and the Dauphin. 

 

Only once and begat a child?  That’s the devil’s bad luck.  For all his dalliances, as far as he knew Aramis didn’t have a hoard of bastards across Paris.  Responsibility and romanticism walked hand in hand for Aramis.  Porthos couldn’t recall a time where he had seen his friend disrespect or diminish women.  If anything he was subservient to women, ceding to their every wish. 

 

Was it that way with queen, he wondered.  Aramis’s reputation was hardly a secret.  Many nobles openly spoke her barrenness.  Had she asked Aramis to help her?  No, he snorted and pushed the thought away.  Deliberately impregnating the queen was a stretch even for the marksman who felt it was duty to answer the whims of all women.  

 

When I get back, he is going to tell me everything even if I have to beat it out of him, he swore. If he is still alive when you get back dark thoughts whispered back.  His head might be on mounted on the gate.  He spurred his horse into a canter in an effort to outrun his imagination.  Aramis would still be there. Reflexively his hand moved to his sword. It jostled against his thigh, a familiar weight reminding him of a debt that was being called up. 

 

_He swept up the meager winnings of the table game.  The barkeep picked the glasses off the table.  It was late and few remained in the tavern, most too drunk to move until tomorrow.    Discretely, he counted the coins.  A new sword was costly if one cared about quality.  A twinge of pain went through his shoulder as a reminder. The next sword that breaks might cost more than some pain and stitches._

_A tankard clattered on the table and he jumped, hand halfway to his dagger before he recognized the bemused brown eyes._

_“Aramis! What happened?”  He exclaimed, settling back down.  The musketeer had begged off dinner at the garrison, citing a previous commitment.  Outside of fighting, Aramis only had one other indulgence._

_“Kicked out bed before the husband returned?”  He wiggled his eyebrows suggestively.  “After the husband returned?”  Rolling his eyes, Aramis doffed his hat and sat in the chair across from him._

_“I am the soul of discretion, my friend.”  His voice wounded with mock hurt. “It doesn’t matter what time the husband comes home, the only thing he knows is that his wife is satisfied.”  Porthos laughed and raised his tankard in salute. Aramis bowed his head but instead of raising his own mug he lifted something from his side and a large slender object clattered on the table._

_Even in the dim light, the silver of the handle of the sword reflected brightly, its fine grip encased in swirling metal work that ended in a long leather sheath. Dumbly and out of habit he looked for maker’s mark and when he found it, he choked.  A blade of Monsieur Gris, one of the best swordsmiths in Paris.  He glanced up and found Aramis tipping back his tankard. Pride reared its head and he pushed it back across the table._

_“I can get a blade meself.”  He said fiercely.  A few more days at the tables and he would be able to buy a sturdy used blade.  The sword in front of him would take months to earn, even for an experienced gambler.  Aramis canted his head to the left.  Amusement wiped from his face, seriousness etched into his handsome features. On Aramis it rendered him nearly unrecognizable._

_“I know you can,” his voice low and reassuring. “However, time is short.”  He pointed to Porthos’s shoulder.  “In another few days, you will be ready to return to duty.  Unless you are gambling at some tables with higher stakes, you will either return with a substandard sword or none at all.”_

_Porthos felt his cheeks flame. His humble living was no secret but to have Aramis say it so plainly was like getting slapped in the town square._

_“It is my business, not yours.  I am not a beggar especially to my friend!” Embarrassed, he started rise up when Aramis reached across the table and placed his hand firmly on his forearm._

_“A peasant broke your sword, Porthos. With a stick.” Aramis said quietly.  “This time you were lucky and only almost lost your life-what about the next time?  You are creative and persistent my friend but that may not save you next time.”_

_Porthos winced. The last sword had been won in the Court of Miracles where the quality mattered less than the inventiveness of the wielder.  Both Athos and Treville had pulled him aside to comment on his sword’s quality or lack thereof.  Treville had even subtly offered to assist in purchasing a new blade.  To be in debt to a tavern keeper or shopkeeper was one thing; it was a different matter to be in debt to his friends. He had grown up in an environment where debts ruled everything; status and relationships.  It was the last thing he wanted in his new life._

_Still though, he eyed the sword. It was a fine piece of craftsmanship.  Properly cared for it would last him at least a decade if not more.  And as much as he hated to admit it, Aramis was right.  A soldier’s blade saved more than his life-the lives of everyone he fought with depended on it.  Is your ego worth it, his conscience whispered?  When he looked up at Aramis, he found the marksman leaning back holding out his tankard to the barkeep.  The sour-faced old man scowled at him and shook his head.  Aramis shrugged and returned the jug to the table.  Porthos felt him waiting for an answer but indecision and pride paralyzed his words._

_“If it bothers you, don’t think of it as a gift.” Aramis said lightly stroking his chin.”  Consider it insurance, that you will someday save my life.  Surely that is acceptable?”_

_“No, I cannot take this for nothing.”  Porthos set his cup down and squared his shoulders, preparing for the mortifying task of negotiating repayment.  He took a deep breath. “You have to let me pay you back.”_

_Aramis’s face split into a wide smile.  He leaned forward, a twinkle of conspiracy in his eyes.  “You can pay me whatever you want my friend, though in all fairness, *I* did not pay for it.”_

_Porthos started in surprise.  Aramis chuckled and inclined back into the chair, his hands steepled on his chest. “Thank you though, for the vote of confidence in my finances.”_

_“Who…what…who paid for this?”  Porthos sputtered and then horror spread through him.  “Athos?  Treville.”  He would never live the shame down.  Of course they would send Aramis, trusting the marksman to persuade him to take it._

_Aramis still chuckling, shook his head.  Porthos cocked his head.  “Well I know it isn’t D’artagnan, so who paid for this?”_

_A shocking thought occurred to him.  “You didn’t…”  He struggled for the right words and then dismissed the effort.  “One of your mistresses…did they give you…”_

_The laughing choked off and Aramis stared at Porthos, his eyebrows shooting up into his hairline.  Finally, he replied in disbelief, “I accept many gifts from lovers but money is not one of them.”  His tone was resolute. He reached into his long coat and tossed something onto the table.  It was a garishly colored money purse.  Porthos picked up the bag.  The embroidered material was expensive and heavy coins clinked inside._

_“Did you pick pocket someone?”  He asked sternly.  Aramis made an expression of indifference and waved his hand the air._

_“Is it stealing, if you steal from a thief?” Porthos dropped the purse like it was on fire._

_“Holy Hell, did you steal this from…”  If the quality indicated anything, some pick pocket was probably rallying some of his friends from the Court this moment.  Every thief in Paris belonged to the Court and the value of the purse would not go unnoticed. Aramis was a dead man. Cutthroats were probably outside the tavern at this moment._

_Aramis slammed his hand down on the table, drawing Porthos back from his strategizing on how to best protect him._

_“Porthos, for the love of God,” astonishment in his voice.  “I don’t know whether to be flattered that you think women will pay me a year’s worth of wages for a proper bedding or insulted that you think I am stupid enough to rob the Court of a heavy purse.”_

_“Well then, where did you get the money?”  Porthos waited, refusing to let his mind create any further scenarios. Aramis scoffed and shifted in his chair._

_“If you recall, we recently assisted in the relocation of a well-compensated business partner of the Cardinal.  Sadly, where he was going, he didn’t need French coin.”  Aramis said exasperated.  He jammed his hat on his head but did not rise._

_Dumbfounded Porthos looked to the purse and back up, slowly piecing information together. Aramis took out his dagger out and used it to clean his fingernails_

_“This money…is Emile Bonnaire’s?” Aramis nodded without looking up._

_“I did pick pocket him before he was ushered out of the tavern but come on,” He waved toward the table.  “He didn’t realize a purse that heavy had been lifted off him.  He practically gave it to me.”_

_In the faint light, Porthos could see color creeping up the marksman’s neck.  He dropped his head into his hands and rubbed his temples.   A rumbling built in his chest and he realized he was laughing. He thinks that I am upset he lifted money off of that fiend, Porthos thought incredulously.  He attempted to compose himself and placed his hands back on the table.  Aramis stopped picking his nails and was studying him warily, clearly preparing to hear an unexpected lecture._

_“You mean to tell me that you used that slaver’s money to buy me a good sword so I can go catch more people like him?” Emotion choked the words out._

_Aramis rolled his eyes and returned to his nails.  “When you say it like that, it sounds like poetic justice.”  He looked up, his lips curving upward.  “This is an entirely selfish endeavor. Please use the blade to save my apparently cheap and dumb hide in the future.”_

_Still stunned, Porthos grabbed his coat and stood.  After a moment, he reached down for the sword. The handle fit his hand perfectly. It was light enough that extensive use would not cause fatigue, but had enough weight that a heavy blow or strike would not snap it.  He looped the sword belt around him.  As he finished he looked at his friend.  His throat constricted suddenly.  Aramis could have used the money for any purpose.  No musketeer gets wealthy on the King’s coin.  They lived cheaply and compulsively cared for their meager belongings well past their use by date._

_Aramis tilted his head up, puzzlement on his face.  Porthos swiped the purse from the table.  He tossed it in the air, appreciating the remaining weight._

_“Well, it seems Monsieur Bonnaire’s generosity is not finished yet.”  He said stuffing the purse into his jacket.  He jerked his head toward the door.  “How about we go celebrate his donation to us in another establishment, one with better hospitality and more wine.”_

_Aramis rose gracefully to his feet and tipped his head to the barkeep who spat in a cup he was cleaning.  “I think, that is good idea. Perhaps Madame Angel’s? Or Madame Charite? She is always happy to see musketeers.”_

_Porthos clapped his hand around the smaller man’s shoulder.  “A fine idea, my friend.  That is a fine idea.”_

Please use this blade to save my cheap and dumb hide, Aramis said.  Over the past months it had seen blood and steel, but now it felt heavy.  A thousand men could find their end at the end of his sword.  Another thousand could live under its protection.  The sword came with a single request, however joking the asker had been.  Protect me.  Save me.  He gripped the reins and urged his horse faster.  Consider it done, he thought as a clearing came into view.

_***********************************************************************************************************************************_

 

Two men accompanied Rochefort when he returned.  Draped in red cloaks, their faces were unfamiliar to Aramis.  After years of service to the King, he knew almost every face, even the ones he didn’t want to know.  These men belonged to Comte. A vicious scar split the face of one of the men.  It cut diagonal through one milky eye, across the bridge of a flat nose and dragged the corner of his mouth down.  The other man was pale as snow but his hair was brilliant red.  Expressionless they stood side by side with Rochefort, who in their company, suddenly seemed less sinister than before.  His abdomen muscles clenched. 

 

 He knew pain.  It was impossible to not be served it in battle, in bar fights, or as discipline.  He had been at the end of fist, the sword and the rod. This would be different. Here would be a punishment that only had one ending.  If he didn’t break under their attention, then he would break under someone else’s. Truly, the truth was of no importance, as long as someone was punished for this crime. 

 

A man with red hair stood in front and pointed a pistol at the middle of his forehead.  The other carried new chains but seemed unrushed, content to examine Aramis in silence.   

 

“You may leave your jacket, belt, and boots here.” Aramis took a step back. The scarred man stepped forward. 

 

“Why?”

 

“Because I say so.”  Rochefort said impatience spreading across his face.  “You will not need them.”

 

Aramis felt his mouth go dry. “Am I to be executed now, without a trial?” 

 

“The King will decide whether you need one.” 

 

“And in the interim, I am to go with you?”  He asked aghast. The blond shrugged and let out a heavy sigh. 

 

“You are soldier Aramis, I assume you know what happens to prisoners accused of treason.”

 

“After they receive trial and judgement.” Aramis hissed, welcoming the warmth of rage against the chill of despair that had gripped for the past several hours. 

 

Rochefort tossed him an expression of amusement. 

 

“Naïve.  That is unexpected.” 

 

The scarred man stepped toward him.  Swiftly, Aramis brought his manacles up, and swung connecting to the man’s jaw.  The man tumbled to the ground.  The weight of the chains threw off his natural balance and he faltered. As he regained his balance and looked up a fist met his face.  He slammed back into the stones. 

 

He was dizzily rising to his knees when the barrel of the gun pressed against his temple.

 

“Aramis, it would displease me to kill you now but it is not a hardship.”  He closed his eyes.  God, he loathed that man.  The Duke of Savoy had commanded his full hatred but the devil had risen to the challenge with Rochefort.  Pride demanded he spit, fight, and thwart Rochefort in every way he could. Fear for his son told him to beg for mercy. Sense quietly counseled him to simply survive.  Seconds passed slowly as he grudgingly conceded the best way forward. 

 

 _My brothers are coming for me.  They are coming for the queen. I must give them the chance_. 

 

He rose to his feet and held out his wrists.  He looked past Rochefort at the bars of his cell.  I promised to protect them.  The manacles clattered to the ground.  Slowly his fingers touched the worn buttons of his coat.  By all means necessary, he vowed.     

 

Clapped in chains once more, they led him further into the Chatelet.  The chill bit his skin and the floor was slippery under his bare feet. Were they going to take him bottom he wondered?  He had never seen the bottom of the Chatelet.  There were rumors of a pit, an oubliette, where terrible criminals were thrown and left to their own devices.  He swallowed painfully and silenced his imagination. 

 

Suddenly the back of his shirt was seized, yanking him back.  He heard a door unlock and the redhaired man thrust him into the cell.  His knees hit the dirt painfully.  Warily he glanced up.  They hadn’t gone far, only level down.  Unlike the previous cell this one had a small barred window about the size of his hand at the top of the room. Light from the setting sun flitted in casting the room in red and gray shadows.  He squinted.  Along the back wall was a strange device that looked like a bench.  Embedded in the walls on either side of him were a single set of chains. 

 

He looked over his shoulder and saw Rochefort staring back at him.

 

“Do not break anything and he must be fit for presentation.”  Rochefort instructed the red haired man.  The single blue eye rested heavily on him.  He is going to leave me here, Aramis realized.  He is not going to dirty himself with me.  Aramis spat at Rochefort and uttered a vile oath.  

 

“I know how this must be done.” The red head replied and Aramis jerked in surprise.  The man spoke with a distinct Spanish accent.  His mind whirred with the implications.  Spanish agents in the Chatelet.  His heart jumped into his throat.  They could be in the Louvre.  The Queen.  The Dauphin.

 

Rochefort’s face twisted into grimace.  “I remember. Make sure he remembers it.” 

 

“Traitor.”  Aramis hissed.  The blond tilted his head and folded his hands in front of him.

 

“No, that would be you Aramis.”  Rochefort stepped back.  The scarred man took his place and shut the door quietly.  It might as well been a gun shot.  He heard boots fading outside and the two men walked toward him, blocking the little light that remained.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Milady and the Paris gang will make an appearance in the next chapter. Thanks for reading and let me know if you are interested in being a beta!


	3. The Choices We Make

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the delay. I struggled with writing the voices of Milady and Constance. Still not sure if I did it right but I want to move on. 
> 
> In this chapter I introduce an original character, mainly to give Milady a sounding board. I disliked that the show only presented with her patrons, when I imagined she must have a rich and complex presence in Paris. Maybe someday I'll explore that story...

_If you desire to be good, begin by believing that you are wicked. - Epictetus_

 

Treville pressed the steaming mug into Constance’s hands.  He gently grasped her fingers; whether it was to make sure her grip was strong or to reassure her, she didn’t know but the gesture was welcome. 

 

The tremors finally stopped.  Halfway through the ride she stopped hiccupping.  But she was still cold.  Every blink brought her back to the platform with the hardwood beneath her knees, her pendent between her fingers and the cold sunshine on her face.  Rochefort’s face staring down at her, waiting for the sword to fall. A wave of relief swept through her.  I am free, she thought. 

 

Her vision blurred and her stomach dropped. Aramis. His proud posture had been discernable through the phalanx of guards surrounding him as he was marched past her cell the night before.  She didn’t call out but his head had swiveled and found her grasping the bars of the cell, terror crushing her voice.  Instantly he had stuck his hand through the guards and squeezed her hand. In seconds he managed to convey a few words. 

 

 _“They’ll come for you.  Don’t be afraid.”_  

 

The squeeze of his hand said something else.  I’m sorry. 

 

The guards had seized that moment to act on their rage.  Their blows drove him to his knees and the guards seized the collar of his coat to drag him down the hall, their jeers and yells easily overcoming her cries for mercy.

 

“Constance?”  Jumping, she left the memory.  Athos stared at her wearing a concerned expression.  “Are you okay?”

 

Unable to compose a response she took a sip from the cup and her eyes and throat burned for entirely different reason.  Tea with a heavy dose of whiskey.  Warmth pooled in her belly and spread upward, scorching away the chill.

 

“Constance?”

 

Am I alright?  Hardly, she thought, but there is not much to do about that.  “I will be fine. I was just…thinking…” Misconstruing the source her distress, Athos’s eyes dropped to his cup but he didn’t attempt drink.

 

“It won’t take for her to respond. The prize is too great.”  The bitterness was easy to detect.  She chewed on her lip, watching Athos.  That conversation had gone as well as expected. 

_“We can’t go get him.” Treville said coldly.  “We’re outlaws now, not musketeers.”_

_“We are always musketeers.”  The fierceness in D’artagnan’s voice rang out in the room. From the moment they returned, he had cursed Rochefort and all his relatives, promised a number of painful dispatches and tried to leave twice in order to turn word into sword.  Impulsively she held out her hand. Without saying a word, he wrapped it in his own._

_“Rochefort will have emptied the palace of any sympathizers.  We don’t have any connections in the Palace or the Chatelet.” Treville clarified sharply, twisting slightly to shoot a look of warning to the youngest Musketeers. Undeterred, the Gascon continued on._

_“Then we need someone who doesn’t need anyone else to get in.  We need someone who can get in all by themselves.”  D’artagnan glanced at Athos before going further.  “All by herself.”_

_The room emptied of air.  She blinked hard several times.  Did she hear him correctly?  When she saw the faces of the others she knew she had.  Treville and D’artagnan waited for Athos to answer._

_“You cannot believe she would help us.”  Athos said finally before taking a large gulp from his mug._

_“We will give her whatever she wants.”  D’artagnan insisted. “She’s already given us information on Rochefort. She’s already helped us escape once.”_

_“Information is much different from action.  Helping an armed group of men out of a palace is different from helping a single prisoner out of the Chatelet.  We would be asking her to risk her life.  Even Milady must have a threshold.” Treville pointed out.  D’artagnan dropped his hand to the table with the loud thud._

_“Rochefort chased her from the palace and stole everything of value to her.  I’m not sure you realize this, but revenge is her specialty.”  Constance sucked in her breath and squeezed D’artagnan’s hand, warning him to tread softly here.  Milady’s treachery touched their lives in one way or another but no one more than Athos.  A fight when they needed to be united was something Rochefort would delight over.  He already has enough to celebrate, she thought bitterly._

_Athos set his cup on the table as one might set a pistol.  He turned his blue eyes to D’artagnan and she tightened her grip on his hand in warning.  “I am well aware.”  He said softly. He paused and suddenly it appeared as if he aged, his shoulders sagging forward as exhaustion spread across his face. She didn’t know Athos to be expressive man.  The man preferred to hide beyond stoic glances and despairing sighs.  Now he was weighing the deals that would have to be made in order to save his friend while knowing it could cost more than his purse or blade._

_“We could be setting ourselves up for more betrayal.  We cannot afford to lose more of us.” He said finally._

_“No one else can get in.”  She jumped a little, startled by the strength in her voice and surprised that her her thoughts had skipped straight to her mouth without consideration.  The three men stared at her. Awkwardly, she cleared her throat and set her cup on the table.  “No matter what, none of us will be able to get in without her.  Send her to get him.  If **you** ask her, she will do it.” Constance chose her next words carefully.    “If she does this, you will be in her debt.  Is there anything that she would hold more valuable than that?”_

 

With that plan in motion and presence of mind restored (as much as it was going to be) she examined the musketeer.  An untouched cup of wine had been sitting in Athos’s hand for the better part of an hour.  Normally taciturn, his earlier silence verged on muteness. The messenger he sent for had come and gone.  The handsome dark haired, green eyed stranger arrived with a quiet flourish, listened to Athos’s message and left just as swiftly with a courteous nod.  All they could do was wait for her reply and circumstances required sobriety.  He had a white knuckle grip on the glass.

 

“Do you think she’ll betray us?” She asked finally.  Athos shook his head.  “How do you know?”

 

“Anne…” He must have seen the puzzlement on her face. “That’s her name.  Her real name.  Anne.”  The way he said her name made her shiver.  Like he had summoned a ghost. Here was a man haunted by a living person, whose demon had a face and he had sent for her aid. 

 

“She has nothing now and it is because of Rochefort.  The enmity she holds for me hasn’t changed but he has crippled years of work.  D’artagnan is right. Revenge is her gift.” He almost raised the cup to his mouth before dropping it back to the table. 

 

“It’s hard to be believe she was your wife.”  The words scurried out her mouth before she could stop it.  The musketeer shrugged and looked at the table intently.  

 

“We were different people.”  How different she wondered?  How does love turn to hate?  Was Milady always the woman she knew?  Manipulative, seductive, treacherous or had she once been someone else?  Was her marriage to Athos another part of plan to gain power or something else? Not for the last time, she cursed the complexities of romance.

 

“Do you still feel something for her? Is that why you didn’t kill her last year?”  She waited for his answer.  He shifted as if the words about he was about to say were physically uncomfortable.  

 

“Aramis told me that I don’t know whether her punishment was just and that I accepted her attentions as form of penance.”

 

She sucked air between her teeth.  She didn’t know whether to be impressed by the marksman courage or stupidity in saying that to the best swordsman in Paris.  “Stronger words than I thought him capable.”

 

Athos scoffed and pushed away from the table.  “Don’t be fooled, Aramis can be just as accurate with words as he is with a musket.”

 

“What did you say?”  Athos looked at her with a half-smile.

 

“I told him I didn’t have to listen to a man who slept with half the whores in Paris.”

 

She snorted.  “I bet he took that well.”

 

“He didn’t deny it.  He also didn’t hit me so some congratulations for restraint is due.”  Athos let out a breath.  “He also told me that people capable of hurting us the most are the people we love.  And the people who can do the worst are the people that love us.”

 

She stared for a moment.  The words were unsettling.  Love as a weapon.  Love is a shield, it is protection, it is a refuge. All these phrases she had heard before.  To think of it as a knife held to your throat by someone you love was horrifying.  However, she considered the last sentence and wondered if Aramis meant something else, if he had seen something else in Milady and Athos.

 

“Aramis, always the romantic philosopher.”  Athos said suddenly sitting upright.  She decided to hold onto to the questions balancing on the tip of her tongue. 

 

“He meant well, I’m sure.” She said reassuringly. Athos let out a chuckle that startled her.

 

“He usually does. But don’t think he forgot that whore comment.”

 

She cocked her head.  “What did he do?”

 

He offered her a small grin. “He purchased the services of a prostitute for me.”

 

Constance very nearly rolled her eyes. “Oh.”  She searched for the right words.  “Maybe in an effort to help you…find comfort?” 

 

Athos ran his fingers through his hair and rubbed his swiftly growing beard. “No.  It was his revenge.  Though it backfired in a way.” 

 

“How so?” 

 

“Well the whore offered valuable insight into a problem I was having which allowed me to strip the cardinal of a valuable asset. In order to implement my plan I had to unfortunately roust Aramis from HIS activities which was so pleasing for me I can only conclude whatever he paid was worth it. ”

 

“Hmm. That prostitute like someone we need know,” She replied impressed. It was unusual to feel anything except pity for those in the flesh trade.  “Do they work any place near here that I would know?”

 

Athos raised his eye brows and she flushed.  “I’m not an idiot, I know where men go…to have relations.”

 

“No, I don’t think you could find this person.”

 

Probably for the best, she thought.  Constance shrugged. “Well she must be beautiful.  I can’t imagine Aramis buying you an ugly prostitute.”

 

A strangled laugh emerged from Athos that abruptly stopped when she looked at him.  She narrowed her eyes at him but he swiftly avoided her gaze.  Something was missing.

 

“Tell me what she looks like.”  She asked carefully.  Athos shook his head and took a small sip of his wine. Carefully he set it back down.  He looked behind him.  D’artagnan was still downstairs and Treville had left the room.

 

“I don’t need to.  You've already met them.”

 

“I did?”  When?"  She asked puzzeled.  Oh God was it was close acquaintance?  One of her neighbors? A real smile made its way to Athos’s eyes.

 

“The whore was just here.  You opened the door for him.”

******************************************************************************************************************************* 

 

The man ghosted into her chambers.  Unperturbed, her eyes lifted away from the window.  The hood fell back and she smiled.

 

“Pierre.” She tilted her head in respect to the Night King and resumed staring out the window.  The streets were nearly empty.  The chaos and suspicion of the palace pushed vendors back to their small villages and drunks to the privacy and security of their homes.

 

  He swept into a seat across from her, his beautiful face unusually solemn.  She had to bite back a remark about serious faces rarely invited company.  He was not here to banter with her. 

 

“Milady.”

 

She ignored him.   Whores with soft hearts should be taken to a field and shot she thought uncharitable. She also knew it was inaccurate. Pierre wasn’t a gentle soul who happened to work in the flesh trade.  No, his deeds were less spoken of, only because of how well they were known.  His respectability in the underground was untouchable which was why she would have to listen to what he had to say.

 

The words did not come though. She felt his gaze on her face, patience in his intensity.  Sighing she turned away from the window and rested her palms against the table.

 

“You must think I am much better than what I am, if you think I am going to say yes to their proposal.”

 

The handsome face split into a smile.  “What makes you think that I believe you will say yes?”

 

“You wouldn’t be asking if you thought I’d say no.  You have good sense like that.”

 

He nodded and stretched his arms out behind his head.  “You know who this request comes from.”

 

Leaning back, she crossed her arms across her chest.  At this moment there was only one person desperate enough to be calling on her for help. Again.  “Does my husband need my aid in rescuing Aramis?”

 

“Yes.” Of course he would.  In comparison to his companions, Athos was amateur at subterfuge and disguise.  He could no more hide his bearing and honor as he could the color of his eyes.   Porthos was too distinct and D’artagnan possessed all the self-control of untrained puppy.  She sighed.

 

“Does he realize the difficulty there will be in getting four men in and out of the Chatelet that are the most wanted people in Paris?”

 

“I assume he does.”  Pierre replied flippantly dropping his hands back in his lap.  “Regardless he and his remaining companions cannot go.  They are leaving to help the big one hunt someone.”

“So what does he need me for?  He hardly needs me to sneak through the forest…”  She paused and cursed.  Damn him.  She ran her tongue across her teeth and glowered at Pierre.  “He wants me to go and rescue Aramis.  By myself.”

 

Trust Athos, to choose this moment to place a task of great trust in her lap and expect her to accept it.  The hundred livre for her information sat untouched in a purse on the table.  She could still feel it dropping into her hand after Treville and D’artagnan left the room and the heat of Athos’s judgement.  At first she had intended to spend it getting out of Paris by the quickest means possible.  Now it just sat and she felt no urge to spend it.

 

“You can do it a alone.”  Narrowing her eyes she studied the man who was the authority once the sun went down in Paris.  How had Athos secured Pierre’s trust?  Why was Pierre acting as her husband’s messenger boy?  She had rarely seen him outside of his Kingdom and since her fall from grace he managed to appear all over Paris. Or had he always been there and he chosen to reveal himself?

 

Scowling she reached for the money purse and tossed it at him.  “You could.  You can command anyone of your underlings and they would succeed.”

 

“Maybe. Perhaps.”  He shrugged and looked at his nails.  “However, you, my darling, are the best and most experienced at entering the Louvre unnoticed.  Few of mine could best you.”

 

“So there is someone else who could do it.”  She confirmed.  Exhaling deeply, Pierre leaned forward again. The solemn expression was back on in his face. 

 

“You can do this and I think you want to.”  Closing her eyes, she rubbed her forehead.  Why couldn’t he just let her sit here and wallow in peace? 

 

“Why? The musketeers have only ever insulted and tried to kill me.”

 

“Yet you helped them escape once already with the Queen.” Pierre commented casually.  She squinted at him.  Athos must have told him of her role.

 

“I like having favors among Royalty.”

 

“How will you collect the debt if the Queen is dead or her lover dies?  She knows just as well as the others that you can get in.”  It will not matter because if either of them die, then Paris and France will fall, she thought.  The musketeers will never recover from the charge of treason and the King will soon find poison in his drink or a knife in his back. 

 

She glanced up and then tiredly sagged back. If Paris fell, survival would be difficult but not impossible.  Starting from the bottom was annoyance that she hadn’t thought she would repeat so soon.  The problem with a life in the shadows was that the path was rarely smooth and full of potholes that were really sinkholes.  I’m so tired, she realized.  Tired of running away, plotting, risking everything for coin or secrets.  Tired of being alone.  As a purveyor of secrets the absence of friends hadn’t bothered her but now she found herself wishing for a person who could not be bought. 

 

“Do you want this life?”  Pierre asked suddenly.  She raised her eyes in question. He continued. “If you wanted it, you could thrive and own the underworld of this city.  Even now you compete with me.  I would even gladly share it with you.” He smiled wickedly and her lips turned up.  They both knew that was a lie.   His expression sobered. “But it comes at a cost.”

 

“What is that cost?” Pierre exhaled and looked past her.  He was quiet and she waited for his response.

 

“Power over others does not make you free. Power is a snake that you must strangle but not kill, your grip tight and never ending otherwise it will slip your grasp and bite you.  Our positions as dark rulers are more precarious than the royal of blood.”

 

“You think I am not up to the task?”  She challenged and his laughter filled through room.

 

“Anne…Milady…A worthier adversary cannot be found.” The accolade pleased her. 

 

“I will say this though.  In this life, you are given many chances to change your ways.  Good people, people who care for us, often lead the way by showing what you can become.  Love or even trust can be great source of forgiveness. But as time goes on the more you turn from those chances the fewer people there are to guide you until finally there is no one and when you want to change, those who remain, surrounding you, will be the ones holding your chains.”  He paused and she absorbed his words.

 

Did she want to leave this life?  Her hands were dirty but the payment could be spent anywhere.  Money did not care about its journey only that it was spent.  Could she do this forever?  Is this what makes me happy she wondered?

 

Unwillingly the memory of her happiest day sprung forward.  Days after her marriage, walking through the meadows toward her home with Athos, she had looked up and seen him leaning out the window, smiling down at her.  Waiting for her to come home. 

 

She felt a stab of sadness.  Pockets with no money and carrying drooping flowers, someone waited with a smile for her to return.  Nothing bound them together but their words to each other.  To have felt that kind of love where value was not measured in diamonds and castles but in companionship and trust and then have it cruelly ripped had taken a piece of her heart that she wasn’t sure she wanted find.

 

But it could be found.  It was there in Athos’s silent and long awaited acceptance of the Thomas’s violence.  It was in the quiet moment of passion in Rochefort’s study where his hands had gripped her like he was never going to let her go.  The hurt was still there like a bruise on her heart but it ached a little less.  She had become the woman he thought she was. Master manipulator.  Thief.  Murderer. Perhaps Athos was capable of being the man she fell in love with. The chance to discover this was before her. 

 

With a groan she dropped her head to the table.  Pierre chuckled and she glared back up. 

“Milady, if you accomplish this feat, the underworld will ring with tales of your daring.”

“Well as long as no one drinks to my death.”  She pushed upright.  “I trust you will tell no one that I have experienced a sudden loss in ruthlessness?”

 

“Better a lapse in ruthlessness than courage.”  Pierre rose and started to turn but stopped.  He glanced back at her, a tinge of sadness in his smile. “I’m glad you have accepted this challenge on your own terms.  I trust you will give it the consideration it requires.” 

He bowed deeply to her and  gently seized her hand and placed a warm kiss on her palm.   “However, please know…that you will always be welcome in my court exactly as who you are.  I know your past with Athos drives you in this moment but how you choose to live your life need not depend on him.”  

 

A lump formed her throat and she coughed quietly into her fist. “Your Majesty…I will never again depend on another person for my happiness.  My fate is my own and after this is done I will discover who will join me or not.”

 

Slowly she rose to her feet and offered him a bow in return. “ Please know…that no matter where I am, should you need me…I am your servant.” 

 

They stared at each other, bearing vulnerable expressions that their followers never saw.  Then their masks slid back into place.  He pulled up his hood and exited without another word. She turned to the window and began to lay out a plan to free a traitor. 

 

****************************************************************************

_As darkness fell over Paris, a strangled cry echoed in the Chatelet.  It was followed by another and another, each louder than before.  Rochefort stood at the top of the stairs and leaned contently against the stones.  Finally._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading! As always anyone interested in helping me edit feel free to message me.


	4. Like Sand Through Our Fingers

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Finally, Aramis is here and his friends are running short on time.

_**Lex iniusta non est lex**_  ( _An unjust law is no law at all)-Thomas Aquinas_

 

The rod struck his side again forcing a cry from his throat.  The strength to be silent faded hours ago.  Stretched between the walls his arms and shoulders burned with exhaustion.  After wrestling him into the manacles and raising the chains to a height that kept him on the ball of his feet, the two men had commenced their task.  Each held a rod and wielded it with expert precision.  The first ricochet of pain surprised him.  The second strike built on the first. They circled him and when one finished his strike, the other replaced him. It was a cascade of pain that hadn’t stopped for several hours.

 

The pair didn’t ask him anything and he didn’t offer anything.  He half hoped they would talk around him in Spanish.  Share their purpose, tell him what was going on in the court.  Now the only hope was that they would tire. 

 

He could feel the slow flow of blood down his side and his back from where they broke the skin. He supposed that there was a small measure of gratitude owed that they did not wield a whip which would have shredded his skin like paper at this point. That thought did not make the pain less though and they were meticulous to maintain his consciousness. A blow to broken skin was as effective as holding an open flame to his skin when he started to swoon and like wolves hunting for pain they pursued his cries like a blood trail.    

 

His chest ached from being stretched into two directions.  Every breath was more difficult than the last.  He had to remain on his feet or sag and risk suffocation when the weight of his body made in too difficult to draw breath.  His tormentors deliberately struck his knees and ankles for this purpose seeming to enjoy his short wheezing breaths.

 

Tiredly, he wondered what was the purpose?  Answers were not the goal, though, even it were there was very little he could tell anyone.  Doubtless the other musketeers had fled for safer, more hidden places.  He didn’t have special knowledge on military campaigns or state secrets.  I’ll chew off my tongue before I confess to adultery, he vowed. 

                                                            

The door slammed open and his tormentors paused. His head dropped to his chest, partly in relief and exhaustion.  Held up for so long he couldn’t feel his hands, the tight cuffs and position restricting circulation.  Get your feet under you, his instinct commanded.  One breath at a time.  The floor was slippery under his feet. It was a combination of his sweat and blood he stood on but getting even a small amount of weight off his shoulders gave him relief.

 

  The burning in his chest and shoulders abated, he glanced up through the hair falling in his face.  It was not Rochefort at the door.  It was another man, this one bald and cloaked in black.  He motioned for the red haired man.  Aramis strained to listen but the voices were too quiet.

 

They couldn’t leave him hanging here all night unless they wanted him to die. Pious as he was, he didn’t want to die of suffocation, though it probably was better than whatever punishment Rochefort was waiting to assign.  Already, his breaths came in short, shallow bursts that left him woozy and unfocused.  Exhaustion weighed his eye lids with lead.    

 

Prayer consumed him.  God, please protect the Queen.  Protect my son.   Protect my friends. If there was only one to be punished, let it be me.

 

Distantly, he heard a click and suddenly the stone floor rushed up.  His head struck the floor and dizzying darkness surrounded him.  For a few precious moments everything was dark and quiet. 

 

He felt the heat before it hit him.  It cascaded over him, a wave of fire and then he was screaming. He was melting.   Had they doused him with acid?  His numb fingers gripped the rough floor, scrabbling for purchase as he pressed to the wall, bringing his knees up and shielding his face.  He brought up his arm just as another bucket was thrown over him.  The water was scalding hot. Despite the pain, his tongue slipped out his mouth desperate for some relief for his thirst and tasted salt.  He shuddered in understanding. 

 

It felt like an eternity but must have only been a few minutes.  When there seemed to be a pause he chanced a look up.  The bald man was gone but Rochefort, dressed in his finest doublet stared down on him, a smile on his face.

 

“That will do.  It will take more than hot water to cleanse him of his filth. 

 

He bit bit back a snide remark.  Antagonizing Rochefort served no purpose.  Instead he leaned tiredly against the wall.  His eyes were only closed for a minute when a hand seized his hair and yanked.  A growl emerged from his throat and his eyes snapped open. 

 

The scarred man did not release him, choosing instead to set his eyes wander across Aramis’s face and down his body.  Up close the scars looked worse.  Ropey and twisted the scars split his face, leaving the impression of two expressions, two faces, on one.  Aramis jerked but the Spaniard kept tight him immobilized.  His arms were too numb to push him away.  Another hand snaked out and grabbed his chin.  The red haired man now studied him.  Their intense focus was bewildering. 

 

“Careful Petro.” Rochefort’s voice was calm and amused behind the two spaniards.  “He is going to court. I can’t afford to wait for him to regain consciousness.”

 

“Are you sure you want him now?”  The scarred man asked without looking from Aramis.  “He is not broken yet.”

 

“If you give us the license  to utilize other tactics we can make him more…amenable for  you.” The red haired man’s voice sent a tingle of fear down his spine.  The careful and calculated calmness that seemed detached from human compassion. 

 

“I need him intact for the trial.  There must be no doubt… to his state of mind.” Rochefort cocked his head and smiled down at him.  “The deal still stands if you want it.  You can save her.  Just speak the truth.” 

 

Speak the truth?  Has Rochefort ever spoken a truthful word in his life, Aramis wondered?  Does he know the meaning?  Does he even care?  He spat at the blond.

 

“The council will know you for a traitor Rochefort.”  He hissed through his teeth.   His head slammed against the wall and his vision wavered.  The two Spaniards blurred together to form a single menacing tower over him.  As he tilted, the weight of their gaze pressed upon his face, like they searching for something in that at all costs he must not allow them to find.

 

Faintly, he heard Rochefort sigh.  “Get him dressed and on his feet. He’ll be back here soon enough and you will have significantly more license…to explore that which he has brought on himself.”

****************************************************************************************************************

 

“The messenger returned. She’ll do it.  I asked when but the man just said she’ll do it. ”   D’artagnan said drily as he sat down across from Treville.   “You have to wonder if it will be the first time she’s going rescue someone instead of dispatch them.”

 

Appearing deeply engrossed in his mug, the captain said nothing. He peered over the table.  The cup was empty. 

 

“Captain?”  Treville glanced up, his gray eyes flat and hard.  D’artagnan recognized the look. The uncomfortable expression of someone torn between the what they want to do and what is expected of them. It was almost constantly on Athos’s face, especially after encounters with Milady.  He doubted that it was Milady the captain was thinking of.     

 

“I knew Aramis was…adventurous in his love affairs.”  The captain’s voice was low and worn. Exhaustion lined his face.  For once he looked weak. “I just…had no idea that he was capable of such…stupidity.” 

 

No one expects lightning to strike, D’artagnan thought.  Then it does and everyone is shocked that a building so tall could up in flames so quickly.  “Given his history, I suppose it was only a matter of time before catastrophe. For what it is worth, I do not think it was a planned affair.”  D’artagnan offered as uncorked a wine bottle and held it out of the captain.  Treville shook his head. 

 

“It doesn’t matter.”  Treville pushed his cup away and sat up, scratching his graying beard in frustration. “He is prison for a crime he actually committed.  He handed Rochefort the means to destroy France. An unfaithful queen and bastard heir.  No machinations or strategizing needed.”

 

  A dark chuckle emerged from the captain.  “I bet that pleases the turncoat more than anything.  That there was a perfectly legitimate catastrophe to throw France into upheaval under his nose the whole time.”

 

“Captain…” D’artagnan began in protest.

 

“No!”  Treville slammed his fists down, shaking the table. D’artagnan didn’t flinch but he glanced at the door to see if the noise woke Constance.  After a few more strongly dosed teas he had finally put her to bed. Nothing stirred from the bedroom.

 

Undeterred, the Captain continued. “If this were another man, a different man, would we be doing this? Would we be in this situation?  Hiding as criminals?  Abandoning our sworn duties to uphold the law, to free one who has broken the law?”

 

“Yes.”  D’artagnan said the word so mildly that Treville leaned back in shock. The liaison between Aramis and the Queen shocked everyone.  Anger didn’t even begin to describe what he felt when he thought about it.  Danger circled them because of the marksman’s actions. His chest tightened at the memory of Constance kneeling in front of the executioner.  The first man he wanted to kill was Rochefort but beating the pulp out of Aramis was a close second.

 

 That had changed though with the quiet, slightly slurred words of Constance.

 

_The bed creaked as he sat down next to her.  Constance lay on her side, her arms wrapped around a pillow.  He wanted nothing more than to lie down by her side and hold her till the events of today faded into old memory.  He brushed her braid over his shoulder.  Her hand reached up and weakly wrapped around his own._

_“When I looked down and saw you, I thought I was already dead.”  She whispered.  He flinched and brought her hand up to his lips, laying a kiss across her palm.  “I thought God was comforting me.  Showing me that the one I love will never be far from me.”_

_“Constance, as long as we live…” His voice broke and he clutched her hand to his chest, struggling to compose himself.  Those seconds waiting under the executioner's block, letting her walk up the stairs and kneel were the longest moments of his life._

_“I’m so lucky.”  Her voice was soft.  “Despite everything, I have you.  Nothing…not my husband or society or death…can keep us apart.” Her eyes closed and her breath began to even out.  Tremors ran through him.  He fought so hard to not to think of the possibility of losing her.  He refused to consider the risk that he could fail to protect her.  That just when everything fell into place, fate would work against them. He saw her lips move slowly._

_“I’m so lucky…that I am not the Queen.”  He stilled, barely hearing her words.  Her eyes flickered open, unfocused and unsteady._

_‘What do you mean?”_

_Her arms gripped the pillow and his hand tighter as if she were trying to reassure herself that both of them were still here._

_“The Queen…she has jewels and riches…she will never have to work hard like me…but she is alone.”_

_Of course she would be concerned for the Queen.  “Don’t worry we’ll go get her.  She’ll be fine.”_

_“No you don’t understand.”  She whispered.  “She’ll never be free.  Even if we make it through this…she’ll still be queen. A Spanish Queen with a King who doesn’t love her…who won’t even protect her…at least…”  Her voice faded.  His pulse picked up and suddenly it seemed imperative that she finish her thoughts._

_“At least what?  Constance?” Her eye lids fluttered as the pull of rest became irresistible._

_“She made me promise to never let anything stop me from finding happiness. To love as I wish. I’m so much weaker than her…”_

_“You are the strongest woman I know.”  He whispered fiercely.  Her lips turned up as the grip of her hand relaxed._

_“One memory of you would never sustain me…like it does her.”_

_After she had fallen asleep, he remained on the bed, stunned and confused.  Turning the words over in his head, he tried to figure out what she meant.  What it meant if it were true. Perhaps this affair was not a simple bedding.  Maybe the Queen truly cared for Aramis.  She wouldn’t lie to Constance about something so dangerous._

_Over the last year something had changed in Aramis.  He hadn’t take serious note of it, attributing it to Aramis outgrowing his womanizing ways or better yet the private pursuit of a single woman.  Bachelorhood was a common trait of the life of soldier.  Athos, Porthos, and Aramis were a minority of remaining of bachelors among men their age in the regiment.  Porthos’s previous history suggested a woman of uncommon background and fortitude was more to his liking. Elegance, modesty and meekness were not traits that pleased him. And Athos would probably never trust a woman again._

_But Aramis.  Thinking over the events of the past year and considering his relationship with the Queen and the dauphin several things made sense. The distraction Aramis displayed whenever they were inside the Louvre.  His frequent disappearances. His protectiveness of the Queen and dauphin.  His gaze fell back on to Constance, sleep steadily erasing the lines of worry from her face.  If they were as precious to Aramis as Constance was to him…_

_He cursed under his breath.  They should have known that the affair was something more when Aramis refused to flee to border despite certain death if his part was discovered.  That it was more than honor drawing him back to Paris. There was a whimper below and a twinge of fear went through him.  Nothing would stop me from loving her he thought.  I would do anything to be near her.  Her marriage hadn’t stopped him.  Her husband hadn’t stopped him.  No law would have stopped us, he realized and dropped his head in his hands with a groan.  The law. The only thing capable of ending it all._

 

“Enlighten me then.”  Treville crossed his arms on his chest.  D'artagnan blew through his lips and cocked his head preparing to do something he didn't think he would ever do: defend an act of treason. 

 

  “For one, Rochefort’s purpose since he returned has been the downfall of France. Aramis and the Queen haven’t been…inappropriate in public or in private or else we would have heard about this much sooner. Their persecution seems personal.”  To say the least, he thought.  He held up a second finger.   

 

“Second, we all saw how the King treated the Queen.  He paraded his mistresses around her in front of the court.  He dismissed her counsel and isolated her. The Cardinal tried to assassinate her.  The danger she faced was always the result of the king.  She was alone…”

 

“There’s no excuse!  There is a bastard in line for the throne!” But Treville looked away from him as he spoke and no more.  A lie to defend the behavior of the king was too much, even for the captain.  Louis was a terrible, childish, and vindictive husband.

 

D’artagnan held up a third finger.

 

“How long has the King been married to her?”  Treville didn’t answer so he continued. “Yet no children.  All the court considered the Queen barren.  One night with Aramis and France has a healthy male heir.  The problem of heir did not lie with the Queen.”

 

 The captain face darkened as he leaned forward. Realizing the plainness of his language D’artagnan took a sip of his wine.  Rationalizing Aramis’s actions was slightly disturbing.  It was easier to assume the fault lay with his womanizing. The easier truth is rarely the right one he thought.

 

“To imply the King is impotent is against the law.” 

 

He raised an eyebrow and nodded slowly.  That was a practice he never understood. “However, the King has a duty to France.  If he dies without an heir where will France be?  In civil war where we will be devoured by a Spanish invasion.”

 

“An heir could have been found…” D’Artagan rolled his eyes and slammed his cup down.  What was the captain trying to do? Rationalize the alternatives which would never happen now?  That should never be?

 

“Among who?  His insane brother?  Among the other royal bastards of his father? Name one who you would wish to serve.”

 

“It’s not a matter of wishing to serve! A soldier does his duty.  Aramis is still...” At a loss for words Treville trailed off as  D’artagnan’s self-control snapped. 

 

“Rochefort is a traitor who attempted to rape the Queen!  He murdered people and sowed discord in every part of the court and the city.”  He dropped his voice. “Aramis and the Queen were together once.  Still Aramis has protected the throne at every opportunity despite the fact that being with the Queen would be possible if her husband was dead. Which is the greater sin?”

 

Treville was silent. D’artagnan took a breath and continued. 

 

“Aramis is my friend.  We do the things we must for the people we love.  And sometimes we do those things for strangers because it is right.  No matter who is the Chatelet we must help them.”

 

“Why?”  It was strange to be asked by the captain to justify insubordination.  He wasn’t sure what to say.  It is right, sounded weak and limited.  Some laws are higher than man, sounded treasonous and heretical.  He decided to simplify it by stating the result of inaction.  

 

“Because Rochefort must fall. If we don’t help them, we not only sign their death warrants, we are complicit in the end of France.”

 

The door swung open with a loud crack against the wall interrupting further discussion.  He and the captain were half way out of their seats before recognizing the figure.  Athos was pale and leaning heavily against the door frame. 

 

A feeling of terrible dread settled in his belly.  “What is it?”

 

Athos’s eyes were closed.  “Aramis has been tried by the council at the Louvre.”

 

D’artagnan felt his mouth go dry.  Of course Rochefort would assemble the highest power outside of the King and push for a trial immediately.  The spy knew it was a matter of time before his true intentions were revealed. 

 

“And?  What happened?” The words spilled from his mouth as his heart raced in anticipation.  Could they have seen reason? But he knew that Athos would look very different if that were true.  

 

Athos’s words fell like hammer.  “He’s been sentenced to a traitor’s death.  The wheel. As soon as possible.”

 

“Dear God.”  Treville face whitened considerably and he sank back down on the bench.  D’artagnan felt his own stomach turn.  An exceptional form of death for sure-reserved for the most evil and treasonous villains.  A hanging or beheading he had expected.  Not the wheel.   

 

Athos pushed off the door frame. “We cannot wait for dawn; we must go help Porthos now.  Only Vargas’s testimony can stop this madness.”

 

“What of Milady? And Aramis?” D’artagnan asked as he reached for the water canteen and pulled it over his head.   

 

Athos grabbed his pistol and a package of gun powder.  D’artagnan saw the redness in his eyes.  “All of France is in danger the longer the King is under Rochefort’s influence.”  The next words were hard and bitter. “We must rely on her as the Queen and France depend on us.”

 

“You will not rely on her alone.”  D’artagnan turned in puzzlement to Treville.  Athos did the same freezing in place with his hat half to his head. The Captain stood bracing himself on the table. For a moment it felt like they were back in his office about to take orders.  Which we are to do, he realized as the man met their eyes.  

 

“I will remain behind.”  He said firmly. The captain silenced the protest for Athos with a single glance.  “The two of you will be able to travel more quickly than four. I will wait for Milady and if she fails to rescue Aramis…I will take care of him.” 

 

D’artagnan saw Athos stiffen. His own lungs constricted tightly. The captain did not break their stare. Before them was their leader who led them in countless skirmishes, his guidance and experience more reliable than the Northern star.  He was not going to leave when one of them needed him the most. 

 

“I’ve known Aramis longer than all of you.  He may be guilty but he has served France loyally.  He does not deserve the wheel.”  The captain's eyes flickered to the wall.  D’artganan followed his gaze to the musket pressed in the corner.  Aramis’s musket.

 

The captain looked at Athos.  “I will not let him die on the wheel.”

 

“He is not going to die.”  The fierce rawness in Athos’s voice was jarring.  “Milady will get Aramis. We will return with Vargas.   Rochefort will die.  In that order.” 

 

Athos stalked out the door and D’artagnan smiled briefly at the captain before following him to the door.  That is what I must look like, he thought.  Half mad with rage, impervious to doubt, and committed to the point of recklessness.  

 

He paused at the hallway and looked back.  “Tell Constance where I've gone.”

 

Other words threatened to come out.  There is no one more precious to me than her.  Protect her. Tell her I love her.  That I will come back to her.

 

But he locked the sentiment away, certain that if he voiced it the drugged sleep that embraced her would fail and once more she would follow him into danger.  The captain nodded slowly and raised an eyebrow.  “I will make sure she doesn’t follow you, if that’s what you mean.”

 

Close enough, he thought.  And then he dashed down the stairs carrying hope that they would be not be too late.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I thought I was going to follow the episode more closely (or at least come to the same conclusion) but some ideas have recently popped up and since I am enjoying this foray into writing (even if it commandeers the use of Dumas's characters) I've decided to embrace them. This will not end like the episode. 
> 
> After all, Kurt Vonnegut Rules for Writing says "Be a sadist. Now matter how sweet and innocent your leading characters, make awful things happen to them -- in order that the reader may see what they are made of."

**Author's Note:**

> Hey! If you read this far then Thanks! I am looking for someone to beta the rest of the story. Writing is new to me so I appreciate help!


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